


To Be The Cracked and The Cared For

by IrisCandy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Anxiety, Bellamy misses Clarke, Drunk!Bellarke, Feelings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lincoln is everyone's bff, POV Alternating, POV Bellamy, POV Clarke, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCandy/pseuds/IrisCandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m glad you’re okay," she says, and then he crumbles, because she’s wrong. She’s so, so wrong, and she should fucking know it, because how could any of them be okay after her abandon?  </p><p>Or, the one where Clarke comes back, Bellamy is angry and this calls for a drink (or ten.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm guessing this will probably be made up of three chapters, but that could change. This work is based off of this prompt: http://madgesundersee.tumblr.com/post/113560934944
> 
> Title from "In Dreams" by Ben Howard. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

 

_~ B ~_

 

Bellamy can’t really pinpoint the moment when he realizes that he can’t take it anymore.

 

Maybe it was the fifth time Monty left moonshine out for the taking and some stupid kid got drunk and shot something that he wasn’t supposed to shoot.

 

Or, last night, when the screams throughout the camp were worse than they’ve ever been as most of its inhabitants still see a blood soaked mountain when they close their eyes and he can’t do a damn thing about it.

 

Or, when Abby killed a patient again last week and he found her sobbing in a corner behind a piece of scrap metal.

 

It could be any one of these things putting the ache in his back and the tension in his jaw.  He just needs to keep telling himself that. It’s the moonshine, and the nightmares, and the dead patient, and it has nothing to do with _her_.

 

And it shouldn’t, really, because she had to go, and he had to let her.

 

Bellamy assures himself of this as he’s cleaning another gun. His anger clouds over and takes shape as a numbness crawling through his veins, and he takes pleasure in the simple, predictable movements of his hands up and down and in and out of the barrel. He wonders, idly, when he became the guy who relishes routine and predictability and who practices escapism in the most banal of activities.

 

(Jasper’s voice rings from far away. _Long way from ‘whatever the hell we want.’_ )

 

A hand grips his shoulder just then, and he tries to smother the jump in his bones, but it’s too late. His hand flies to the dagger at his belt and he spins around.

 

“Calm down, man, it’s me,” Miller says, hands up and placating.

 

Bellamy thinks this is the first time he’s ever actually taken the words “calm down” to heart. Literally. He tries to slow the frantic thing in his chest as the blood pumping heavily through his veins makes his skin itch.

 

He feels like his anxiety has been slowly coming alive inside of him for the past two months, and he can do nothing to stop it.

 

“What is it, Miller?” Bellamy asks, his voice rough and his eyes somewhere else.

 

Miller hesitates. He licks his lips. “You might want to come see this for yourself.”  

 

If he were a little less dazed, maybe he would have picked up on the soft, cautious tone of his friend’s voice, but Bellamy finds that he feels nothing. He expects a flush of cold dread or a flutter of fear or a prick of annoyance, but they never come. He just furrows his brow, throws his gun across his back and follows Miller out of the fallen Ark and to the campgrounds.

 

The sun is high and bright in the sky and it makes the Ark’s shell glitter and shine, stinging his eyes. The grass at his feet is crisp and green and the fields beyond the gate merge into a rolling sea of soft yellow. The day reminds him of another.

 

He feels, suddenly, the ghost of something soft and warm on his cheek, and then the sensation of falling as it’s gone just as quickly. He hastily pushes the memory away and forces his head down so that he sees nothing but the muddy smudges on his boots as he walks.

 

And then he hears it.

 

Her voice is the same as it’s always been. Calm, cool, assuring. He’d know it anywhere, and though it’s been two months since he’s last heard it, it feels just as old and familiar as it always has.

 

When he looks up, he sees Clarke Griffin standing amongst the throng of guards and delinquents, greeting and hugging and smiling sadly. He notices the long scratches and gashes on her skin even from dozens of feet away, and he could swear that she’s gained more muscle in the past two months than she has since they landed, but otherwise, she looks just the same as she always has.

 

But she’s here, and she’s unharmed, and he feels as if he hasn’t breathed in real air since she left. He watches her spin around to greet person after person, her gold hair shining almost white under the sun. He searches for happiness, and he thinks he finds it in her smile, until he notices the tightness of her face and the weight in her eyes.

 

“There was no one else with her,” Miller says. “As far as we know, she’s been alone this whole time.”

 

Bellamy squints. He notices the strange mix of Grounder and Sky People in her clothes, and it makes him say, “I doubt that.”

 

And then she spins once more, and she’s looking right at him. He sees the arch in her back straighten out, and her face falls into an expression of something that he can only describe as awe as her arms fall slack at her sides.

 

He can’t be sure of the expression on his own face as he stares right back at her. There is an indescribable mix of emotion grappling for control in his stomach and he can’t be sure which will come out on top. 

 

Clarke dismisses the people around her and begins to march toward him, but he can’t move his own legs. She finally speaks to him again in a hush when she reaches him:

 

“Bellamy.”

 

His name sounds like a hopeful prayer on her lips, and his heart clenches, and she takes a breath –

 

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

And then he crumbles. His insides turn to dust and any semblance of hope or relief or whatever that fleeting ray of light was inside of him is obliterated by that same sweep of anger that he’d been feeling since she left.

 

Because she’s wrong.

 

She’s so, so wrong, and she should fucking know it, because how could any of them be okay after her abandon? 

 

What comes out of his mouth is all ash.

 

“The princess returns,” he says, a little cockily. “I guess you wouldn’t happen to have any supplies on you?”

 

Clarke is taken aback. Her brow crinkles, her smile dies, her body deflates.

 

Bellamy pretends she’s only confused. “A boar, fresh water, med supplies? Anything?”

 

She stares at him, searching his face for a moment as if waiting for him to burst out laughing, but he’s stony as he can be.

 

Her voice is uncertain. “Uh, no. I don’t. I’m sorry.”

 

“Right. Well, just do us a favour and stay out of the way. Besides,” he hikes up the gun on his shoulder and forces impassiveness on his face, “You’re needed in the med bay.”

 

His words are like chalk on his tongue, and he can tell that they mean far more between the two of them than they do to the puzzled friends surrounding them.

 

 _I don’t need you anymore._ That’s what he thinks he means. That’s what he _should_ mean.

 

(So why doesn’t it calm his pounding heart in the slightest?)

 

Clarke’s wince reflects his own, and his heart feels like its wheezing. He can feel the anger rushing through his core and getting stronger by the second as she just _stands_ there as if the world is all right and balanced.

 

But without another word, he walks past her. Nobody follows.

 

He doesn’t think he really means to bump his shoulder against hers as he goes, but it happens, and the action is much more aggressive than a kiss on the cheek.

 

As he leaves her behind, he feels the pressure of a whole other burden threatening to bring him to his knees, and suddenly, Bellamy’s world feels a whole lot smaller, and the air smells a whole lot staler than it ever has before.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind comments! Hope this doesn't let you down! Here's part 2...

_~ C ~_

 

Clarke feels stronger and wiser than she’s ever felt, and she thinks that this strength came about the night Lexa’s hand slid up her thigh.

 

The action was slight, but the gentleness of it had been so far from what she’d expected from the other girl that she’d felt it like a jolt in her bones. She remembered the hungry glint of attraction in the commander’s eyes, and something else, too, something more important than that-

 

Admiration. 

 

Admiration for a girl who fell from the sky, turned hundreds of Grounders to ash, caused wars, drew blood, intruded and damaged and trespassed and hurt and killed.

 

And Clarke did not see a single inkling of the resentment or the hatred that she should have seen in the commander’s eyes. What she saw, instead, was the hope that she’d been missing for so long.

 

That night was the night Clarke knew she had to leave Polis, and with it, the guilt that she’d been carrying since she pulled the lever. She realized, that night, that if the girl from space who’d left too many heavy footprints on earth can gain the admiration – the _love_ – of a woman who should have wanted her head on a stick, than there is more to their survival than making tough choices.

 

There is hope. There is _faith._  

 

Where the mountain men had faith that they would reach the ground through the pain of others, Clarke had faith that pulling the lever would mean protection for the people she loved and some semblance of relief for the people who, she knew, couldn’t live knowing that a victim’s marrow filled their bones.

 

Where the mountain men made mistakes, Clarke’s sure she’s made just as many.

 

There is no winning and losing, she decided that night. There is only faith in the choices that, in her eyes, leave the least amount of pain.

 

There is only her faith in what she knows, and her people’s faith in her.

 

Lexa is Clarke’s living, breathing example of faith in the people who least deserve it. Clarke gave a goodbye kiss to the woman who left her people to die, and Lexa reciprocated to the woman who led them to war, and they leant on each other when they shouldn’t have.

 

Clarke realized then, too, that intimacy is not a promise she can keep just yet.

 

So she comes back with thoughts of her people as her fuel. She comes back with her feelings for Lexa melting away to memories in her mind, because she knows their place in her heart has expired.

 

And here she is, standing in the space where Bellamy left her, and she’s scratching her head, but she still feels strong.

 

She seeks out Octavia that night and finds her by a dying fire. She relishes the warmth of the stick of fresh meat in her hands as she makes her way toward the fading flames, her heart beating a little quicker than she would have liked.

 

The last time she saw Octavia, the other girl had yelled at her to try harder while Clarke tried to ignore the smell of Fox’s body lying in the bin next to them.

 

Octavia’s eyes flick up to hers as soon as she’s in hearing range. Her gaze is expressionless; her elbows rest loosely on her knees. Hesitantly, Clarke offers the meat stick to the other girl. Her eyes glint angrily with the light of the fire and she looks far from happy to see her, but she takes the stick anyways.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Clarke sighs as she finally has time to sit. Her spine aches as it’s forced into a hunch. “I get that you and Bellamy aren’t really my biggest fans right now.”

 

“I guess you could say that,” Octavia says through a mouthful of meat, not moving her eyes from the fire.  

 

Clarke nods and stays silent for a moment, her brain trying to find ways to mend the divide between her and the youngest Blake.

 

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness,” Clarke says calmly. “But I didn’t just come here to give you your rations.” 

 

She nods toward the meat and Octavia sucks the juice from her thumb as she stares back at the other girl. “So you want my help? With what?”

 

Clarke shakes her head. “I just need someone to catch me up. You know, on camp, supplies, numbers-“

 

“And Bellamy?” Octavia interrupts her, seemingly bored.

 

Clarke lets her words die in her throat, feeling a blush creeping up her neck. She presses her lips together for a moment. “I don’t know if he’s angry at me for leaving or if something else is going on, but I can’t have him ignoring me.”

 

Octavia grunts. “He’s probably just ticked off that you left him with this mess to clean up. I’m not sure you can really blame him for that.”

 

Clarke raises her brows, sceptical. “That’s it? Really?” 

 

“You say that like you only left him on the beach with a barrel of moonshine and rations to feed an army. You realize this is all on him, right? None of the kids trust Kane, or Abby, or anybody else but you and him _._ ”

 

“I just meant…” Clarke pauses. Her mind is a mess and she can’t ignore the sour feeling inside of her that something else is going on. “I wondered if it’s really only about me leaving, or if something else happened that’s got him talking to me like we’re fresh off the drop ship.”

 

“Whatever it is, he can handle it. Look, Clarke - he cleans guns. He mopes and broods. He tells me how he wishes he could see my face under all this,” she traces a haphazard circle around her dark eyes, framed by even darker stains of charcoal. “And he works his ass off to protect us.”

 

She swallows the rest of her meat and pauses for a moment, spinning the bare stick around in her hands.

 

Clarke’s heart grows warmer. It isn’t like she’d expected Bellamy to give up on them while she was away (she’s not one to stupidly underestimate a Blake), but she’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t been worried. She never got a chance to ask Bellamy if he was okay, after spending so many days in the mountain with only traumatized grounders and the feeble sound of Raven’s voice through a walkie.

 

She knows not to assume that a person can’t change after only a few days.

 

But Bellamy is strong, like his sister, and she smiles knowing he’s kept the rest of them strong too.    

 

Octavia pulls herself up from her log and starts back toward the Ark, decidedly done with their conversation.

 

She pauses on her way, and her voice is harsh. “And you’re right, Clarke. I don’t forgive you for Tondc. You should have been willing to burn with us.”

 

There’s a fist around Clarke’s heart, until Octavia turns to look at her, and her eyes are a lot softer than her voice had been. “But I will thank you. I could have never made the choice to pull that lever, but _you_ did. That’s what you’ve been doing this whole time, for us, and we’re alive because of it. I can’t be mad at you for doing what had to be done. Besides, I’d have to be mad at my brother, too, and I don’t have the energy for that. Not anymore.”

 

They stare at each other long enough for something crucial to be repaired between the two of them, and Clarke nods her gratitude. Octavia gives her a half smile, before she disappears back to camp.

 

As Clarke gets up to leave, the flames finally die out, plunging her into darkness.

 

She makes her way toward the Ark and tries to think of where she might sleep tonight, if she sleeps at all. She’s thinking the med bay, when she hears the snap of a twig behind her.

 

She spins, a hand on the dagger at her hip, only to be met with a very large, bulky figure that sends her heart skipping in relief.

 

“Lincoln?”

 

“Clarke,” he says, slightly out of breath. He pauses a moment in front of her, and the two search the other’s face, before Lincoln pulls her in for a hug.

 

“It’s good to have you back,” he says calmly.

 

Clarke pulls away and smiles up at him, before her brow furrows. “What are you doing here? I thought you disappeared after the battle.”

 

She notices the feathers falling from the large net bag he carries. He must have been hunting for them.

 

“I can’t be loyal to a commander who leaves her allies to die,” he explains.

 

“Lexa did what she thought was right,” Clarke says softly, but Lincoln shakes his head.

 

“An alliance should be honoured. Indra gave me a choice. I chose the leader that I knew I could follow.”    

 

Clarke lets his words sink in. He looks at her with reverence that she isn’t sure she deserves, but she knows is entirely mutual. She feels a sudden rush of great appreciation and admiration for the man in front of her.

 

“And Octavia,” Clarke says in understanding, and Lincoln nods.

 

She sighs, turning her head to stare at the dozens of torches reflecting their light off the Ark. “Well it looks like we’re both sorting out our priorities.”

 

“I’m sure Bellamy’s relieved that you’re back.”

 

Clarke looks back at him, but her eyes are far away. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

 

Now, Lincoln looks confused. “What do you mean?”

 

“I haven’t spoken to him since I first saw him. He wasn’t happy.”

 

He furrows his brow and stares off at the Ark, as if expecting to see him standing there. “He’ll come to his senses. I know he’s missed you.”

 

Clarke’s heart jumps in her chest, but she ignores it.

 

Lincoln’s quiet for a moment, and some tension builds between the two of them that gets Clarke feeling nervous. “What is it?”

 

“If the mountain men did anything to him like they did to me, then he should hate me for leaving him there to die,” he muses. “And instead he’s treating me like his second.”  

 

“What do you mean? Lincoln, what-“

 

“Lincoln!” Someone calls, and Clarke clamps her mouth shut, because she would recognize Bellamy’s voice anywhere.

 

Suddenly he’s jogging toward them from camp, torch in hand. “Anything good?”

 

Lincoln holds up the bag of large birds that he’d caught. “Enough to last the week at least.”

 

“Good work,” Bellamy says.

 

Clarke’s not entirely convinced that he didn’t notice her until just now, but he finally decides to look her in the eye.

 

Neither of them have any idea what to say, but Lincoln bristles beside them.

 

“I’ll, uh, go store these on the Ark,” he says as he starts to walk away, and every fibre of Clarke’s being is screaming at her to follow and pry more information out of him, but Bellamy’s gaze holds firm and she finds that she can’t move.

 

“Wait,” Bellamy says dryly, and Lincoln stops in his tracks. “Let me help you with that.”

 

If Clarke didn’t know any better, she’d say that Lincoln looks disappointed, but he doesn’t argue. He only sends a look at Clarke that says _you weren’t lying about this guy_.

 

“Bellamy,” Clarke starts as he begins follow him, but he doesn’t stop.

 

He calls over his shoulder. “Don’t stay out here in the dark too long, Princess.”  

 

Clarke is usually pretty good with words, but she’s suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to slap the passive aggressive bullshit out of him instead.

 

_~ B  ~_

 

When they’re done storing the food away, Bellamy realizes that Lincoln is waiting on his orders, but he isn’t really in the mood to push people around when he can hardly handle himself. He expects Lincoln is itching to see Octavia anyways.

 

“You can go, Lincoln. I’m not your commander,” he says, sensing the other man hovering behind him. Bellamy’s distracting himself with gathering stray feathers and cleaning up messes that he really couldn’t care less about. He blames it on his janitorial history.

 

“You should make it up with Clarke,” Lincoln says from behind him.

 

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Bellamy asks, bored.

 

“Her leaving was good for her, Bellamy. You know that. She’s strong, she can help you.”

 

Bellamy pauses and turns around to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I know what it was like to be held by that mountain. I know what it feels like to lose control of yourself.”

 

“You’ve got it wrong.” Bellamy scoffs and goes back to work (distractions).

 

“Fine,” Lincoln says. “But at least let Clarke help the rest of us.”

 

Bellamy doesn’t say anything. He crouches and pretends to rearrange the meat. He wills the man to go away, to leave him alone; _he needs to be alone_ -

 

But then Lincoln places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

 

Bellamy’s hands freeze, but then he has to clench them into fists, because they don’t stop shaking –

 

The hand on his back makes his bones ache with longing and sends warmth through his knotted muscles. He’s craved contact, and he hates to admit it more than anything else. The last time someone’s touched him to keep him grounded like this was when Clarke said her goodbye.

 

And then Lincoln’s gone, and Bellamy falls out of his unsteady crouch and onto the cool floor, feeling hollow and more alone than ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like Lincoln, I'm super sorry. I find his bromance with everyone extremely adorable. Here's to hoping you liked this chapter? *-* More to come...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your responses on this! Your comments make my day and I'm so grateful for all of them. Here's me anxiously posting another chapter and hoping its not too OOC for you considering the situation (by situation I mean lots of moonshine and mushy Bellarke). This will be the last chapter for this particular story, but I may write more in another story as a part 2 type thing if I'm feeling inspired. Enjoy guys! <3

 

_~ C ~_

 

She doesn’t speak to him for another two days. She would feel good about it, if he didn’t look so utterly unperturbed by her silent treatment.

 

But _look_ is the keyword here, isn’t it? Clarke knows he’s feeling just as frustrated with their fire-with-fire fight as she is, even if he won’t show it.

 

She has faith that they just haven’t found the right time to work this out yet.

 

So, naturally, she corners him after he fights with Octavia and is looking anything other than passive aggressive. She doesn’t think the fight was about anything particularly important, but it got him angry, and Clarke can’t help but smirk mischievously, because this is what she's been hoping for.

 

She follows him into the Ark and grabs him by the arm, and she can tell he knows what’s coming when she drags him into an empty room. She happens to choose the one where they keep their prisoners if need be, and is grateful that no one chained or otherwise occupies this room today.

 

She shuts the door behind the two of them.

 

“I’m hoping we can skip the part where you tell me off today.”

 

He rolls his eyes and sighs, grating his teeth in annoyance. “Would you take pity on me if I told you I really don’t wanna hear it?”

 

“Really? Because it seems to me that you do.”

 

He’s already angry with his sister, and even angrier with her, and she’s so utterly relieved when something other than bullshit comes out of his mouth.

 

“Clarke, I was _here_. You weren’t. There’s really nothing you can say to change that, so why don’t you just drop it?”

 

“Do you need me to feel guilty for leaving, Bellamy? Because I already do. Every day. You made sure of that.”

 

Bellamy tenses. “Don’t blame me for your mistakes.”  

 

“I’m not _blaming_ anybody. I’m trying to figure out what the hell you want from me that will make this stop.”

 

Bellamy clenches his jaw and looks away from her. His voice is deadly calm. “I told you that we’d work this out. Together. And you still left.”

 

Clarke sighs and steps closer to him. “I left because I had to. I wouldn’t have been of any help to you here-“

 

“What makes you so damn sure of that?” Bellamy runs a hand through his hair. “Clarke, I _needed_ you. I needed you here, and I get that what we did was hard on you. I get that. But the longer I sat here trying to deal with our people and their nightmares and their drunken tirades, the more pointless your little escapade felt to all of us. Do you not get how-”?

 

His voice cracks and he makes an exasperated noise. This is the first time, she thinks, that she’s seen him lost for words, but she’s patient. 

 

When he speaks again, his voice is tired. “Do you not get how fucking important you are to this camp? I can’t _do_ any of this without you. Especially not now.”

 

Clarke doesn’t know what to say. She licks her lips, but nothing comes out, and she watches as Bellamy’s suddenly focused on his own hands, and he pushes them out toward her.

 

“This hasn’t stopped,” he croaks.

 

She’s not sure what he means at first, until she notices the shaking. His hands are visibly trembling in front of her. She looks from them to his face, and he looks like he’s falling apart. She’s not sure how she didn’t notice something like this before.

 

But she won’t let herself feel guilty for cornering him. If she knows anything now, it’s that building pain up inside like brick upon brick upon heavier brick results in nothing but self-destruction.

 

Bellamy speaks again. “I’ve tried to ignore whatever this is, but ever since we left that mountain, I’ve felt like…”

 

He shakes his head, his face contorted in confusion.

 

Clarke moves closer to him. She stares up at him with a crease between her eyes, and has to stop herself from taking his hands in hers.

 

“What is scaring you?” She asks softly.

 

Bellamy takes a deep, shaky breath. He looks at her like she’s the tether holding him together, keeping him upright. 

 

“I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

 

This, she realizes with a cold flush of fear, is his cry for help. She expects that maybe that’s what it was this whole time, but Bellamy has a way of channelling the unfamiliar into anger.

 

Clarke takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

 

Bellamy’s brow furrows in confusion as Clarke reaches out to fiddle with a stray strand on his jacket shoulder before her hands falls down his arm, lingering at the heel of his hand.

 

“We can deal with this,” she says softly, and she’s not oblivious to how she sounds just like he did the day she left him.

 

He lets out a desperate, humourless laugh.

 

“ _I mean it_ ,” Clarke stresses. Now she curls her hand around his, and she watches him swallow thickly. “But first, I think we could both use a little unwinding.”

 

Before he can say another word, she tells him to wait there – he shockingly obliges – while she heads across camp, bumping into exactly who she was looking for.

 

“Monty!” she exclaims.

 

“Hey Clarke,” Monty says with a dopey smile on his face, two large tins huddled in his arms.

 

“Is that-?”

 

“Monty’s moonshine? Hell yeah. I swear I’m going to have to start charging people big time for this stuff.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Clarke says with a smirk. “Also, do you think I could borrow those?”

 

Monty almost drops the tin cans, his eyes widening. “You?”

 

“Well, no, I was going to share-“

 

“Please tell me you’re going to inject some into Bellamy while he sleeps? The guy makes Jaha look relaxed.” 

 

Clarke sighs. “If I tell you I’m sharing it with him will you give me the cans?”

 

Monty’s shoulders sag, as if relieved.

 

“Clarke, you can have the entire batch.”

 

 

_~ B ~_

 

Fuck _moon_ shine.

 

Bellamy is sure this stuff is liquid sunlight.

 

When Clarke suggested the idea, he was against it. He knew it’d get him cloudy and unable to deal with whatever the earth threw at them that night, and who knew what he’d feel like in the morning?

 

But the thing is, she gave him that _look_ and once he started, he couldn’t stop.

 

He didn’t really want to, either.

 

(His hands have stopped shaking.)

 

They’re sitting at the edge of a river that runs through the forest, just outside of camp. The fireflies scattered above them are brighter than normal, acting as dozens of flashlights overhead and reflecting dancing orbs of greenish-yellow on the water.

 

He can see every detail of Clarke’s face as she giggles at something stupid he said. He can’t remember what that something was, exactly, but he knows it takes a lot to make the Princess laugh, so he pretends that she isn’t drunk enough to find a shovel hilarious.

 

“Anybody else?” she asks him. “Please tell me its cute.”

 

She’s on her side in the dirt, one arm holding her steady while the other traces circles in the dust.

 

“Raven and Wick,” Bellamy says.

 

Clarke widens her eyes up at him excitedly. “ _No_.”

 

Bellamy leans back against a tree, crossing his arms. He swallows a belch. “One hundred percent.”

 

Her mouth forms a scandalous _O_ , and Bellamy furrows his brow down at her. “You’re not seriously surprised.”

 

“Wipe that patronizing look off your face, Blake,” Clarke hits his arm with the back of her hand while trying to balance herself with her elbow. “Forgive me if I’m sceptical. You wouldn’t know romance if it hit you in the face like a flying brick, and even then-“

 

“Even then, what?” Bellamy asks, amused.

 

Clarke crinkles her forehead in discomfort before she hiccups, and Bellamy thinks it might be the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He doesn’t have the energy to blame his butterflies on the moonshine.

 

When she recovers, she says, “Even then, you’d probably just hit the brick back until it left you alone.”

 

Bellamy laughs. “You’re so wise when you’re drunk, Princess.” 

 

“Shut up,” she whines, and he grins. “Why is it that the moonshine doesn’t even do anything to you? You’d think you’d at least do something embarrassing. Or say something stupid.”

 

Bellamy thinks she’s right until he realizes that he hasn’t felt this _affectionate_ in a very long time. Looking at Clarke right now, under the fireflies’ light, he has the urge to compare her to something vast and beautiful and everlasting. Space, maybe, if he didn’t hate it so much.

 

He’s far from hating Clarke.

 

“Maybe I just need something stronger,” he says, and he’s stupidly staring at her while he says it, so it’s all he can do to pull his eyes from her sleepy face and up to the sky above.

 

There’s silence, for a little while. Clarke stares up at him with eyes like two winking orbs in the night, and Bellamy finally asks what he’d been wanting to ask since her return.

 

“Where’ve you been, Clarke?”

 

She sighs. “Polis.”

 

She says the word like it’s a marvel. She whispers it in yearning, like a prayer, or the name of a long lost lover that’s been found again. 

 

It reminds him, actually, of the way she said his name on her arrival back to camp.

 

“Grounder camp?”

 

“It’s beautiful, Bellamy. You should’ve seen it. It’s nothing like anywhere else we’ve been.”

 

“That’s not something I would have expected from the Grounders.”

 

“Well,” Clarke sighs again, sleepy. “If we all looked like what was expected of us, the Sky People would probably have guns for tongues and wings sprouting from their backs.”

 

Bellamy snorts. “Convenient.”  

 

“Mhm,” Clarke says, but it wavers as she giggles.

 

After a beat, Bellamy asks, “Do you want to talk about what happened? I mean, when you were gone.”

 

Clarke pauses, staring up at him with consideration, before she shakes her head.

 

He can’t pretend he isn’t a little relieved. He thinks the both of them are better off, and whatever happened to Clarke in those long, _long_ two months away had obviously made her stronger. It made her happier with herself.

 

He can be nothing but grateful, deep down, even if it hurt like hell to lose her.

 

Clarke says, “Do you want to talk about what happened in the mountain before I got there?”

 

His heart skips a beat, but the moonshine keeps his body from exploding.

 

“Soon,” he croaks.

 

He can tell she’s trying not to look disappointed.   


“I don’t want to keep it from you Clarke, I just…it was bad. And I need time.”

 

“You don’t owe anybody anything, Bellamy,” she says softly. “Including me.”

 

But he nods fervently at her. He can feel the deep gratitude and reverence he feels for her pooling in his eyes, and he can’t decide if he hopes she sees it or not. “Yes, I do.”

 

They look at each other for a long time, trying to piece together one another. In the end, she smiles gratefully and nods twice, and he thinks some kind of understanding is born between them.

 

Bellamy feels his eyes growing heavy and he can tell Clarke is slipping too, but he knows he can’t sleep while she’s still here with him. Who knows when they’ll get more time together like this?

 

It’s a miracle no one has come to bug them for something yet. 

 

Finally, she pulls herself from the ground and shuffles up to the tree beside him so that they’re sitting side by side, looking out onto the river.

 

“So,” Clarke says quietly. “Is there anything stronger?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“The moonshine. Is there anything stronger?”

 

He looks at her.

 

 _You, maybe,_ he wants to say.

 

She brushes her arm against his, and even in his state he knows it wasn’t accidental. His nerves are more alive than he expected, and he feels a small shiver up his spine as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

 

She turns to look at him, her eyes moving all over his face. They’re barely two inches apart.

 

 _Your lips,_ he wants to say.

 

When she strokes her thumb over the back of his hand, he realizes how much he missed her. It’s the worst kind of ache still weighing heavily on his chest even though she’s sitting right here.

 

He’s overwhelmed with the urge to pull her closer, but he can’t, _he can’t._ He is stuck under her gaze. It’s intense, it’s powerful, it’s loving, it’s everything she is, wrapped up in a look.

 

“I missed you so much,” she whispers, and her voice cracks with unshed tears.

 

His heart wants to jump out of his chest and its frantic beating is like a countdown to something inevitable -

 

He kisses her, and there’s no hesitation. She kisses him back as if she’s drinking him in, trying to find her footing in this foreign place. It’s slow and it’s deep, him moving to cup her face and run his fingers through her gold hair, and her gripping the front of his shirt like a lifeline.

 

“We can’t,” she says breathlessly against his lips.

 

“I know,” he replies.

 

And they keep kissing.


End file.
